


Esthetician

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Ficlet, Gen, Implied/Referenced Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-25
Updated: 2015-01-25
Packaged: 2018-03-08 23:08:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3226937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The mischievous Bardlings accidentally feed Tauriel some naughty fantasies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Esthetician

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Drabble for anon’s “The three kids decide to give the pretty elf boy a makeover while he's sleeping” request on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/13429.html?thread=25232757#t25232757).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

There’s so much work to be done in the new Dale that it’s understandable Legolas would need sleep—even an elf can’t stay awake forever. Tauriel’s already had her rest, so she works while the handsome prince takes the bed in the corner, left empty while Bard plays the role of Master for the town. His skills with the people more than merit the raise, and Tauriel is happy to watch the children in his absence and help mend what she can. A fishing net lies across the table she works at, only barely salvageable, and Tauriel weaves it back together as she eyes the children in the corner. A menial task to be sure, one that she would surely be shamed for if word were ever to reach King Thranduil, but alone and outside her realm, Tauriel finds no task beneath her. Though the destruction—the _death_ —hit her as hard as anyone, it’s a strange joy to be useful again: helping the wide world she’s very much a part of.

And she’s honoured to have the prince stay with her and help, when it is such dull, dreary business. 

A sound in the corner lets her know that he’s stirred, the children not as stealthy as they think. The boy, who was only watching, bustles quickly away: Tauriel’s first sign of trouble. The little girl makes a quickly-stifled giggling noise, the older hushing her immediately. But it’s too late. Legolas makes a quiet, elegant yawn, and the children go scampering off in fits of laughter. 

Tauriel lets the fishing net rest and glances at the damage. They borrowed some of her paints and powders yesterday, but she assumed it was for themselves, not... Legolas. 

Legolas stretches his strong arms out before him, his long hair tumbling gracefully over his back as he cranes his neck. Though Tauriel feels little more than platonic affection for him, she can, of course, concede that he is very beautiful. The light in the rickety old house is poor at best, but she can still see that an unnatural array of colours mars his skin, so she’s half surprised to find him still that beautiful. Children painting men in their sleep tend not to do the best of jobs. But when Legolas turns to look at her, Tauriel mouth falls open. 

His expression its usual cool mask, Legolas’ complexion is smooth as ever, enhanced around the edges, made relaxed through the curved lines and the subtle colouring. A faint pink has turned his strong cheekbones rosy, soft. An iridescent shimmer makes his lips catch in the light and glisten, wet and glossy, like an open beckon, a call to be kissed. His darkened lashes seem heavier, falling across his eyes to give him a smoldering bedroom look, enhanced by the green-and-silver shadows dancing between those thick lashes and his contoured brows. For a moment, Tauriel is lost in the look of him and memories, her mind searching for where she’s seen this view before. It takes her longer than usual to place it, because concentration is difficult when staring in the face of pure beauty. 

Legolas looks unmistakably like a royal concubine, an erotic, exotic gift for Elven nobility, trained since adulthood and decorated to please. If any other elf were to step into Mirkwood wearing such a look, they’d be swept instantly away into the king’s private harem, bound only for royal hands. Though Tauriel can’t tear herself away from Legolas’ face, his trim body fills her peripherals, flashes of him fighting flicking through her mind like a strange dance—he could move well enough to play the part. He looks so striking that perhaps he could be mistaken for another and taken to the king all the same, stripped and made to kneel by Tauriel’s own guards before the thrown: a sensuous offering. His hair would slip over his shoulders while he bowed, and when he lifted his face, King Thranduil would see not only the man he made but a rebellious, wanton treasure with the perfect eyes and mouth for pleasure and hot, blush-stained cheeks—

“Tauriel?” Legolas asks, and now he’s moved closer—she didn’t notice in her reverie. He stands before her chair, completely unaware of his new whorish countenance, fondly ignoring the children’s giggles in the background. He places a hand on her shoulder, reassuring, as he murmurs softly, “Are you well?”

She has no words. She glances at his long, skilled fingers, and realizes that his nails are painted with a swirl of green and silver to match his face. He seems to realize it, too, because he stops wearing his concern for her in favour of staring at his own hand, fingers splaying out.

Before he can ask, Tauriel blurts, “Watch the children; I need fresh air.”

He opens his mouth, but she’s already rising out of the chair, leaving the fishing net behind and fleeing to the door with elk-like speed. As soon as she’s out the door, she shuts it firmly behind herself. The air outside is cool and crisp and still smells faintly of ash. 

She can still picture King Thranduil stripping the traditional concubine robes off Legolas’ body, before kissing him hard enough to smear the shining lipstick between their pale lips. Then King Thranduil would stroke the more elegantly painted parts of his son’s face, lay Legolas down in the depths of their castle and make slow love to him under the light of the stars.

Tauriel’s cheeks are red-hot, and before anyone can come out and ask her why, she rushes into the city, hoping the wind will wash her clean.


End file.
